


Courtship

by Zhie



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse, Courtship, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 20:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11791047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: You can only live life forward, but sometimes you can do things out of order that you missed the first time around.





	1. Prologue

After the tears, the apologies for years lost and pleas for second chances, it was Fingon who made the proposal. “I know this is not going to fix everything, and I know it will take time for all of us to reach a place without fears and what-ifs plaguing us, but there is something that I realize we all really missed out on. Perhaps not as much for Erestor, but for Glorfindel and myself, so many of our relationships have gone from friendship to lover without much in-between. There has been a piece missing for us as well.”

“Courtship,” Glorfindel guessed rather easily. 

They were having a simple supper of hummus with unleavened bread, and a tray of pickled vegetables. It was early spring, and many of the crops they grew for their own consumption had yet to bear fruit. Erestor tore a portion of his bread apart and wrapped it around a pickle spear. “Can you really go back and court someone?”

“Obviously, we cannot go back, darling. We can only live forward, but there is no ban on courtship after one has committed himself to a relationship. In fact, I find the notion even more romantic,” admitted Fingon. “Courtship prior to a solid promise or marriage is typically an expectation. Courtship after seems even more lovely. However, should it help, we could always explore the idea and pretend not to know each other as we did so.”

“That seems a bit silly, and yet… it could be fun,” said Glorfindel as he moved several olives from the tray to his plate. 

Erestor still looked a bit confused. “Are we doing this here at the house, or in public? And do we assume identities, or how do we exactly pretend not to know each other?”

“If I did not already know you to be creative, I would worry for your imagination,” said Fingon. “We would still be who we are, it is more like… like we could pretend we just had not met before. Or met, but did not have what we have with each other.”

Now Erestor looked defensive. “Are you suggesting we live apart, then, and--”

“No!” This answer came from both Fingon and Glorfindel at the same time. Glorfindel cleared his throat and placed a hand on Fingon’s arm before he tried to offer an explanation. “No one is going anywhere. I think the idea is that we could engage in all of the facets of courtship as we are, or, if we wanted to, we could just pretend not to know one another -- no preconceived notions. For instance, when we go to that inn with the good soup that we can never recall the name of despite going there at least twice a month,” said Glorfindel, and this admittance made Erestor smile a bit, “if they had cream of asparagus, sauteed sweet onion soup, and chicken dumpling, which one would you order for me?”

“The chicken,” answered Erestor without a second thought. “You are denied access to chicken and beef here,” he said, and Glorfindel smiled now. “Besides, the asparagus has cabbage in it, and you hate cabbage, and you think the onion soup tastes like they burned it.”

“The onion soup is really good,” interrupted Fingon. “I just want to defend the onion soup as being delicious.”

“Which is why I would order that for you,” said Erestor.

“Exactly. You know us very well,” commended Glorfindel. “If we were courting, though, you would politely wait for the staff to tell us which soups were available, and then you would let us state which we wanted.”

“I think I get it,” said Erestor. “We are so comfortable, we miss those sweet little opportunities to just… be in the moment.”

“Exactly,” said Fingon. “So what do you think?”

Erestor chewed thoughtfully on a strip of bread. “I think neither of you should make plans for tomorrow night so that I can take you out on the town.”

Fingon grinned, but bit his bottom lip, and Glorfindel smirked. “We were actually thinking of the other way around.”

The chewing stopped and Erestor looked back and forth between the two. “This is a conspiracy,” he recognized.

“No…” Glorfindel looked away and Fingon continued to grin.

“So both of you are taking me on a date,” said Erestor as he tried to understand exactly what he had apparently agreed to.

“Maybe just tell us if you are willing to try, and then go along with it when it happens,” Fingon suggested.

Erestor finished his food and took a long drink from his glass of water. “Sure,” he finally said.

“I was hoping for ‘yes’, but it is better than the alternative,” said Fingon.

“Midweek, next week,” said Glorfindel as he started to gather the dirty plates. “I know you hate surprises, so hopefully knowing that at least will make it less painful.” He kissed Erestor on the cheek before he took the dishes to the wash basin.

Erestor drummed his fingers on the table and looked across at Fingon, who was still finishing his supper. “Am I expected not to court the two of you, then?”

“Oh, I absolutely expect reciprocation,” confirmed Fingon. He set down his spoon, for he had opted to eat most of his hummus without bread, and folded his hands with his elbows on the table. “Just let us have one night for this, and if you hate it, then we go back to the comfortable normality of life.”

“I doubt I will hate anything that involves the two of you,” said Erestor as he reached across to place his hand over Fingon’s.

Fingon smiled and bowed his head to kiss the back of Erestor’s hand. “I appreciate your optimism.”


	2. Chapter One

Erestor stretched his arms over his head. Birds were chirping, the housecat was on his legs, in from a night of hunting, and to either side there was a cold empty spot in the bed. Erestor sat up and looked around. No one was sitting at the desk. He stretched his legs and arched his back before he shoved one blanket away. The cat grumbled at being dislodged and resettled over one of Erestor’s arms. Erestor moved to his side and scratched the cat behind the ears. The cat rolled over, and he gave the tom a good belly rub, which was interrupted by the sound of someone knocking -- nay, pounding -- on one of the outside doors.

For a moment, Erestor stopped what he was doing and listened. If anyone else was in the house, they would surely see to their caller. The thumping was heard again, and that was when the date crossed Erestor’s mind -- it was midweek. He shoved away the rest of the covers, pushed the disgruntled cat gently aside, and left the bed on Glorfindel’s side. On the way to the door of the bedroom, he snatched the closest garment, Fingon’s robe, from a hook on the wall.

“Just a moment,” he shouted, though he was unsure whether anyone could hear him as he bounded down the stairs and swung the robe around to put it on at the same time. He nearly slipped on the landing, but caught himself by grabbing hold of the banister. The pounding came again, and he hastily tied the sash around his waist before he fumbled with the knob and unlocked the door so that he could swing it open. 

“Ah! There is someone home!” On the other side of the door, there was a messenger. Erestor blinked several times, for the curtains were still covering the windows inside, but the sun shone brightly outdoors. “I have a message for the esteemed Prince Erestor.”

It took a moment for the words to register in Erestor’s head. Most of the time, the title did not cross his mind, and yet, many on the island still regarded his father Tata as the true King of the Noldor, thus making it quite acceptable for anyone to refer to Erestor as royalty. He tugged the robbed a little tighter so that he did not reveal anything to the messenger that he wished not to. “Mmmhmm?”

“Is that you?”

“Oh. Yes. That would be the prince. I am, that is I… me. Yes.” Erestor cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

“My good Lord Glorfindel has sent me on errand to deliver this unto you.” Only now did Erestor notice the messenger was dressed in green and gold, and sported a blanket on his horse with the crest of the Golden Flower on it. It may well have been Glorfindel’s own blanket, Erestor realized, as he took hold of the scroll handed to him. “He bids thee, read this, and meet him at your earliest convenience in the courtyard.”

“Which courtyard?” There were at least four different public courtyards within riding distance, and while Erestor suspected the letter might give him a clue as to which one he was to arrive at, he did not wish to make a mistake and end up spending the afternoon alone.”

“Why, the Courtyard of Nevrast, of course,” said the messenger.

“Of course.” Erestor was no closer to knowing his destination. “Was there aught else he said?”

“Only that you are to read that at your very earliest convenience.” The messenger bowed, and Erestor nearly bowed back, but then recalled the title by which he had been addressed and merely gave a slight nod. The messenger walked back to his horse, and Erestor closed the door.

“Nevrast, eh?” He rubbed his face with his free hand, still not quite awake. He pinched the sleep from his eyes and then untied the ribbon from the scroll. Erestor leaned with his back against the door as the cat joined him and batted at the end of the sash that dragged down to the floor. It was a short letter, and there was no doubt from the penmanship that Glorfindel had dictated it to someone else. At first, Erestor did not understand why he would have, but the contents of the letter made it clear.

Dear Prince Erestor,

Forgive this intrusion upon your day, your highness, but I have hopes that we might converse again in regards to a topic we recently discussed. You shared with me that you once tutored others in the subjects of penmanship and writing, and I wished that we might speak of this again privately. I have a delicate proposition which I hope you will be amenable to. If you should be free today, I would very much like to meet with you in the courtyard fountain at your earliest convenience. 

Humbly yours,

Lord Glorfindel   
House of the Golden Flower  
Nevrast

 

“Got it,” said Erestor after he read it the second time. Of all of the courtyards on the island, only two had fountains, and only one of those had a single fountain. It happened to be one of the closest, and that made a lot of sense, Erestor decided as he climbed the stairs to retrieve pants and a shirt before he returned to the ground level. He dumped the clothing on the chair, went to the washroom to get a towel, and proceeded outdoors to bathe. He returned in short order, and entered the washroom, towel wrapped around his waist, in search of a comb. He paused before the mirror once he had one, and tried to decide whether to leave his hair loose to dry, or to wind it back in a single tidy braid. 

That was when an unfamiliar scent caught his attention. He looked down to see a tray of cosmetics set on the edge of the counter. Erestor moved it back so that it was not at risk to fall, and picked up a small glass vial whose stopper was left in the tray. He meant only to reseal the bottle, but the scent was stronger as he lifted it, and Erestor bent his head to sniff at it. He frowned as he looked at himself in the mirror. The door, which was ajar, was pushed open further, and the dog trotted in. “Seems they were busy this morning,” he said to his furry companion, and the dog sat down and swished his tail against the floor. 

Erestor looked back at his reflection. “This needs some work,” he decided. “That messenger is probably on his way back to inform them he finally roused me,” reasoned Erestor. “Alright. This is Nevrast. Now to figure out what Prince Erestor would look like.” He set down the comb and returned to the bedroom to look through the items in his part of the wardrobe. Much of his and Fingon’s clothing had intermingled on account of their similar builds and matched height, which meant in theory he could borrow anything he liked -- a good thing, he decided, as he sorted through all of the drab clothing that was his. Black was the obvious winner, though he also owned a fair number of things in the earth toned category.

It occurred to him, as he took a blue shirt that belonged to Fingon from one drawer, that he might have something stored in a box in the basement that could work. Fingon’s recent trip to the mainland ended with his return on a chartered ship that brought not only many of his things, but also the numerous boxes that Erestor and Glorfindel still had in storage at Elrond’s home. While he had yet to sort through many of them, there were a few large trunks that Erestor knew held costumes from performances long ago. He put the shirt back and headed down to the cellar.

There were two levels to the basement at the cottage. The lowest level was deep underground, and it was here that there was ample wine stored, as well as root vegetables and all of the food that was canned for use over the winter. The level above, until recently, had been used to store some of the furniture that was in the cottage when they arrived, but remained unused. Now those benches, chairs, and tables were shoved to the edges to make room for “boxes of memories”, as Glorfindel called them when they began to bring them down. There were pathways between them, and while they initially made an attempt to sort things out, near the end of the day spent bringing the crates down they were just piled up nearer and nearer to the stairway, left for later. 

There were some boxes atop the trunks, and Erestor relocated these elsewhere before opening the first of them. “No wonder you were so heavy,” he commented, finding that while it did have some costumes in it, it had mostly contained books from the Imladris Library. He lowered the lid and flipped the latches in place before moving to the next trunk. This one appeared more promising, and Erestor sorted through the embroidered outfits, most of which had been made by Celebrian or Arwen. He smiled as he fondly recalled nights spent on the makeshift stage in the Hall of Fire, portraying historical figures he had actually known, while others who had never been to Aman, and perhaps never would, looked on in awe.

He found, tucked into the chest, a black jerkin emblazoned with his crest in silver and blue. Thoughts linked to the first time he saw it, standing in the field with Glorfindel and Elrond’s children on a late spring day. He thought of all of them, and Arwen especially, and how she had decorated his racing chariot. Hints of memories, slivers of recollections, brought him to the last time her saw her, and the last words she said to him. He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard her voice in his head.

‘You might think you have forever, Erestor, but do not waste whatever time you have. He loves you, and I think -- no, I know, you love him.’

Erestor set the item back into the chest away the tears from his chin and cheeks. He took a deep breath and looked through the chest again. The jerkin would be perfect, really, with his crest on it, but it was heavy with memories of old. Today was about making new memories, and Erestor wondered if anything in the chests was really appropriate until he found a wrapped package that seemed a bit out of place. He sniffled a bit and pulled the string that was tied around the coarse brown paper. The clothing was expertly tailored and never worn, and when he held it up, he could tell that it would fit perfectly. There was a silver silk shirt, and with it a tunic of indigo with silver clasps and trimmed with silver and light blue threads. The tunic was asymmetrical and would hang lower past one hip. There was a belt to accompany the attire, black with silver accents, and a buckle that resembled a star. “Looks as if I am predictable,” he ventured to say as he gathered the clothing and took it back upstairs.

By the time he dressed, adding black trousers and tall black boots to the ensemble, his hair was dry. He rummaged through the drawers in the washroom, and found a selection of scented oils. After experimentally sniffing each of them, he nearly settled on the one labeled bergamot, until he found a few more in another drawer. Here there was one with ‘lotus’ written on a tiny bit of paper glued to the bottle, and while his first instinct was to avoid anything that sounded like a flower, Erestor found he rather liked it. He felt calmed by it, and while it was likely more due to sniffing a vast variety of the oils Fingon kept around the cottage, Erestor declined to overanalyze. 

There was a little stack of glass jars left aside in a cabinet for the mixing of the oils, and beside them an unmarked bottle which Erestor knew to be almond oil. Into one jar went a bit of the base oil, and to that a few drops from the bottle of lotus. Erestor dribbled a bit onto his comb, which he drew several times through his hair until it was scented, full, and shiny. He dragged his hand through to make sure it was not too oily, then as an afterthought dabbed some of what remained along his neck and behind his ears as he might have done in ages past if he was so inclined to make an attempt to impress someone.

He stepped back and assessed the situation. He did not want to dally, lest they think he had no intention of joining them at all. At the same time, his perfectionist tendencies had surfaced. He looked down at his nails, found them completely unacceptable, and spent the next quarter hour   
filing away the rough bits before he went out back and soaked his hands in the hot spring so that he could tend to the cuticles. “Good thing there are no neighbors,” he said as he came inside, still only wearing the towel, which had threatened to slip off on his way back.

Hygiene had once been very serious to him, and he now recognized that he had fallen away from it over the years. It was for this reason he was especially careful as he began to dress, and he even took careful consideration when selecting his loincloth. Now he stood in front of the full mirror in the bedroom with his chin up and looked himself over. 

He turned to the other side and put his arms over his chest. It was a presentable image, but it was no prince, he decided. Something was missing, and it only took for him to catch the gleam of light dancing across the desk to know what it was. 

Like most of the Noldor, Erestor was stereotypically attracted to shiny things. HIs current selection of jewelry was meager; many things he had given to others over the years when they made mention of recalling a particular piece they had liked. A farmer had rare need of them, and it seemed a terrible loss to keep things so beautiful hidden away in a box. He looked now at what he had left. There were a few rings, a jewel of questionable origin that Glorfindel had given him and probably should not have been left to lie haphazardly in a box, and a few other ornamental things with sentimental value. Here he also found the circlet he wore many times in Rivendell, and it seemed only right to put it on if he was to embrace his role as a prince. Emeralds were the gems he favored, so much of what he had to choose from did not match his outfit, though he did find a silver chain that he decided would work once he detached the pendant that was attached to it. There also was a replica of Vilya, for times when he impersonated the Lord of Imladris to ensure Elrond’s safety in unfamiliar realms, and this, too, he decided to wear. 

Again he assessed himself, and while it was coming along, something nagged him that it seemed the look was yet unfinished. Erestor moved the pieces in the box around again, in case he had missed something the first time, and now noticed a little pouch in the corner. He deposited the contents into the box and looked thoughtfully at the tiny jewels and rings of silver and gold. It had been a sort of rebellious thing for him in the First Age. When he brought Artanis to live with him, there were things she deemed irregular or unnecessary, and he was smitten and allowed her leave to paint the walls whatever colors she liked, to change out the curtains and the rugs, and to rearrange everything until she was satisfied. One thing with did not please her at that time were the earrings he wore. They were the last things to go -- she literally walked up to him one day as he was making lists of seeds, removed them, and never told him where she put them. He did consider putting another set in for spite, but in those days his methods of negotiation included giving Artanis whatever she wanted.

After she left, the world moved fast, and it was not until he stepped into Gondolin and had respite from all else that he remembered one day as he passed a jeweler. At one point, he had a total of seven piercings -- or was it nine? -- and it was like that for some time. After the wars and the grief, he was more conservative about it, and by the time he reached Imladris, he was more inclined to keep needles on hand and wear the studs only for important occasions. There had to be a needle somewhere, he reasoned, and he sought out all of the usual places he would expect them to but until he found them.

On one hand, he felt he was wasting precious time, and the risk of getting blood on his new clothing. On the other, he did have access to a horse, and while it seemed a little frivolous to ride to his destination, it also seemed more princely to do so than to walk. He pulled the chair from the desk up close to the mirror once he gathered everything he needed. There now came only the question of the amount. Two? Four? Or should he go with three, and should he favor the side where his tunic was longer or shorter if that was his answer? He shook his head as he decided it was a bit much to do that, and looked again at what he had to work with. From what he saw in the box, he decided that the smallest of the silver rings did not seem too casual, and that while the pair of adamant studs were set in galvorn, only the silver-white stones would be noticed.

It was a surprising easy task to complete, he decided, and likely due to the number of times he had done it himself in those later years in Imladris, coupled with how often he was giving himself tattoos. Before he could contemplate adding yet another adornment, and one which would take a far longer time, he checked for any last-minute quick fixes, fetched the scroll, and was off to find Glorfindel.


End file.
